Shakespeare’s Sonnet #50 “How heavy do I journey on the way”
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
Reading of Sonnet 50
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The images in the YouTube video are from an original 1609 edition of Shake-speares Sonnets held by the British Library. It is one of only thirteen copies in existence. Images courtesy of the Octavo Corporation.
Modernized Spelling and Punctuation
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
“Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.”
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
Simplified Modern English Translation
How sadly do I journey on the way,
when what I seek, my journey’s end,
only provides the rest and time for reflection to say
“My friend is this many miles away from me.”
My horse, wearied by my own sorrow,
moves very slowly, as he bears that weight in me,
as if by some instinct the beast did know
I am in no rush, since I’m traveling away from you.
My sharp spur cannot provoke him forward
that I sometimes thrust into his side out of anger;
which he heavily answers with a groan,
which is more painful to me than the spurring is to him;
because that same groan puts this thought in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
Text from Original 1609 Quarto
Transcription courtesy of University of Virginia Library:
How heauie doe I iourney on the way,
When what I seeke (my wearie trauels end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
Thus farre the miles are measurde from thy friend.
The beast that beares me, tired with my woe,
Plods duly on, to beare that waight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lou’d not speed being made from thee:
The bloody spurre cannot prouoke him on,
That some-times anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heauily he answers with a grone,
More sharpe to me then spurring to his side,
For that same grone doth put this in my mind,
My greefe lies onward and my ioy behind.